


Filthy

by Anonymous



Series: between the crosses (but with shipping) [1]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Quickies, fic of a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24531862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “That’s filthy,” Farley croaks.  He’s riveted.“Get us more than three minutes and I’ll show you filthy,” Pickering says.[The best OC pairing from thebetween the crossesseries!]
Relationships: Lance Corporal Farley/Private Pickering
Series: between the crosses (but with shipping) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021228
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8
Collections: Anonymous





	Filthy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pavuvu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the guns below / now we lie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897365) by [Ealasaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ealasaid/pseuds/Ealasaid), [Pavuvu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pavuvu/pseuds/Pavuvu). 



Good Lord, is this a sin. He  _ knows _ it's a sin -- he's had half the Bible memorised since he was ten and goes to church service every Sunday at home, off the line -- but none of that really seems important when Farley shoves him up against the trench wall all gentle-like and puts his mouth on Pickering's.

Farley’s a damned lunatic. He cut his teeth on pickpocketing and minor burglary in one of the rougher neighborhoods in London and sharpened his skills and his wits in the back alleys as he grew older, picking fights for his gang -- or crew -- or whatever he calls it, Pickering doesn’t remember because his knees are going to give out because Farley’s latched onto that patch of skin right beneath Pickering’s ear and sucks, hard. 

“Christ,” Pickering hears. It must be coming from him, because Farley’s still busy. “Jesus, Christ -- Mary -- God --”

Farley leaves off, annoyed. “Pick’, I know you were a vicar’s get, but really --” 

Pickering grabs Farley’s hips and pulls him in, grinding up against him with the ease of long practice. Farley nearly swallows his tongue and goes cross-eyed. 

“Just get on with it,” Pickering says. It comes out of him unevenly, partly because it feels so good, and partly because he’s suddenly got no air. “Kimberley said, what, we’ve got three minutes? Just --”

Farley pins him against the wall again. If he was gentle-like before, now he’s  _ hungry _ \-- he has the fastenings of both of their trousers undone in an instant and his kiss turns into a shuddery exhale when Pickering gets his hands on Farley’s prick.

They fumble. It takes a moment to coordinate, forehead to forehead, breath mingling as they adjust to the sudden brilliance of being touched knowingly, purposefully, but then they’ve got it: both of them jerking off, fast and hot, wrapped in each other’s fist. Farley kisses him again, deep and wet and slick, and damn him, he knows all the tricks in the book. He does that particular twist with his fingers catching just under the head of Pickering’s prick and his hips hitch forward into Pickering’s grip and both of these things are impossibly arousing, because Pickering can just imagine how, if they had an hour alone, more than three minutes anyway, they could try some of those things Farley’s always hissing in his ear --

And that’s it; Pickering comes first. He muffles his whimpers by biting the other man’s lip until he tastes blood -- Farley is just too damned good with his hands, the bastard. Pickering keeps his own hand going while he gasps through it; they are on a time limit, after all, and Farley just needs a little bit more --

Farley drags his mouth away and stifles his groan in the wool of Pickering’s uniform shoulder. He spends himself in a hot, wet spatter that Pickering feels first when it trickles over his knuckles. 

Farley shudders when Pickering gives him an extra little tease, thumb rubbing exactly the right way under the head because Farley fucking deserves it for always getting Pickering over the edge the fastest, and he slumps, his weight holding Pickering in place. It’s sort of like they’re actually able to have a proper post-sex lie-in.

But they aren’t. This is still the trenches, and Pickering gives them five seconds before he wriggles until Farley pulls himself upright. Cleanup just takes a moment, surreptitious wiping of spunk using the undersides of their shirts and (just to fuck with Farley more) the bit that Pickering licks off his hand, casually; it doesn’t taste very nice, but seeing Farley’s eyes, already blown-out and dark, just get darker? Worth it. 

“That’s filthy,” Farley croaks. He’s riveted.

“Get us more than three minutes and I’ll show you filthy,” Pickering says, wiping the rest of it on Farley’s shirt. He isn’t sure if he can actually live up to that promise, but it’s probably the only time he’s ever seen Farley speechless, so -- oh well. 


End file.
